


The Simple Life

by DevonShea



Category: James Bond - Fandom
Genre: Community: MI6 Cafe | mi6_cafe, Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff and Humor, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 14:46:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19793092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevonShea/pseuds/DevonShea
Summary: Marty is enjoying his simple life as a farmer, but the villains and agents of MI6 keep getting in the way of that.  Something has to be done.





	The Simple Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Linorien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linorien/gifts).



> Go Team Villain!
> 
> For Linorien, because she's an amazing con artist... ;)

When Marty decided to chuck the ridiculous Wall Street rat race and move to a small town in Italy, he was more than ready to embrace the life of a simple farmer with his entire being. He took on a farm with an orchard and purchased a stall in the local co-op’s market. He was surprised at just how shoddily put together the market stalls were the first time he set his up. They were supposed to be permanent fixtures, but these looked to be more suited to being put up and torn down in minutes. Marty just shrugged it off and proceeded to sell the jams and jellies he’d put up with the fruit he’d harvested. 

He was in the middle of a particularly spirited debate with Giovanni, the pie vendor in the stall next to his, when it happened the first time. Giovanni was just saying he thought the pico de gallo Marty was going to start selling the next week wasn’t going to do well when a screech of tires made him cut off his words with a curse. “I knew it was too good to last!”

Giovanni grabbed his cash box and card reader, and started running for the small cinder block storage building on the edge of the market. Marty watched as the other vendors headed the same way. The old baker who’d barely given him the time of day in the month he’d been here yelle at him incredulously as she passed with her bag and cash box. “Come on, you crazy American! Do you want to be run over?”

Marty would have questioned her but at that moment a sleek sports car threw itself around the corner, headed straight for his stall. He quickly grabbed his own cash box and ran for cover. The car swerved at the last minute but the car that had followed it didn’t. Marty watched from under the awning of the storage building as lovingly packaged jars of jam flew through the air to smash on the ground and the cracked windshield of the car. The driver of the car simply got out and threw a rude gesture at the first car before he turned around, reached inside the car, took out a scary-looking gun, and turned around to start walking the other way.

A hand rested itself on his shoulder and he looked into Giovanni’s sympathetic eyes. “Ah, bad luck, my friend, but it’s happened to all of us at least once.”

“My stall…” Marty couldn’t quite grasp what Giovanni was saying. “What do I do now?”

“Well, the co-op will get our friends up the hill to pay for the new stall, of course. You did get the claims form in the membership package, right?”

“What? This happens often enough that there’s a claims form?”

Giovanni laughed. “My naive American friend. This has been happening for as long as our friends up the hill moved their headquarters here about twenty years ago. Interpol and MI6 have been at odds with them forever. I’ve had my stall replaced three times. I always get more than my stock is worth and they pay for the new stall to be built, of course, so it works out in the end.”

“But who are they?”

“Ah, they never do give their name, do they? They’re just our friends up the hill. They provide a decent number of jobs for the area, though, so we forgive them the odd high speed chase.”

* * *

Marty got his claim filled out. And the next. And the next. Apparently, the reason his stall had been available for sale was because it was also the one that lay in the most common path of speeding vehicles. It was as he was filling out the fourth one in three years that he got a terribly splendid idea.

It took almost a year for his turn to come up again. In that time he’d married the grand-daughter of the baker who’d called him a crazy American. She still called him a crazy American, but now said it with a tiny bit more affection than insult. Contrary to what Giovanni had predicted, his pico de gallo had become his most popular product. He even had a standing order to deliver it up to the “non-existent” building up the hill. He'd become a loyal supporter of the local football club. Basically, he was enjoying his life more than he ever had working on Wall Street.

He had just finished tallying up Signora Ricci’s purchases when the market was alerted by the sound of squealing tires. It had been a good three weeks since there was a chase. Marty grabbed his cash box and hustled Signora Ricci along with him, taking her bag for her. He joined the others in the storage building and watched as three cars came speeding into the marketplace.

From the quick glance he got at the drivers, he recognized one of the agents that used the shell company Universal Exports. He’d sold some jam to him just yesterday, in fact. Of course, the man had seemed a bit distracted as he watched that new doctor from up the hill make his own way around the market. It looked like the drivers of the chase cars were Johnny and that odd duck, Vito.

Marty watched the three cars and estimated their trajectories. Yep, they were going to hit at least one stall. Giovanni stood next to him, sighing. “Mine or yours?”

“Both, I think.” Marty grinned in anticipation. He’d insisted on rebuilding his stall himself the last time. The others had thought he was crazy for doing the work after the market was closed, but he knew the rebar and concrete that he’d disguised with flimsy plywood was going to make the next few moments completely worth it.

A month later, the check he got from their friends up the hill was even larger. It also included an invitation to meet with the boss about a job. Such deviousness must be rewarded, after all. 

Six months later, his flimsily-built stall was obliterated again, but he rebuilt with the same materials the others in the market did. He wouldn’t want to become too predictable. Maybe next time it would be reinforced.

**Author's Note:**

> James Bond is not mine. To be honest, as much as I adore him, if he was mine, I'd throw him back.


End file.
